


What Are All These Kissings Worth

by tarysande



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, characters and relationships will be updated as needed, kiss prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-05 14:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: A series of self-contained kissing-themed one-shots (in no particular order).





	1. A Kiss Where it Doesn't Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> I reblogged a prompt list on tumblr (same username as here) and was inundated with lovely kiss prompts. Kissing fic is a nice way to join a fandom, right? Chapter titles will indicate the prompt; chapter notes will mention the relevant characters.
> 
> Onward, then: Chloe/Lucifer (set ~early season 2)  
> Past tense

Chloe rolled her shoulders, took a fortifying sip of wine, and glowered at the surveillance footage as if glowering alone might make it give up its secrets. With one hand, she rubbed absently at her neck and sighed.

On the couch opposite her, Lucifer paused—he was flipping through one of Trixie’s coloring books like it was a glossy magazine full of titillating gossip—lifted a querying eyebrow, and said, “I could help with that.”

She threw him a look she suspected was on the pathetic side of beseeching. “Could you? It’s just—I know there’s got to be something here but I’m just not  _seeing_  it.”

Lucifer’s expression twisted into the kind of abhorrence she was more accustomed to seeing on Trixie’s face when Brussels sprouts were on the menu. “Oh. No. Not  _that_  tedious business.” Disgust slid sideways into a smirk and, screw the footage, the  _come hither_  in his eyes was downright criminal. “It’s your shoulders I could help with and, unless I’m mistaken and I daresay I’m not, the accompanying headache.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not gonna happen.” She gulped a huge swallow of wine to give her hands something to do. “You know, just when I think we’re making  _progress_ —”

His eyelashes were also criminal. Especially when he used them to such devastating effect. “Come now, you’re clearly suffering. What’s a little helpful massage between friends?”

She huffed a brief  _ha_. “When one of the friends is you? I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess  _inappropriate.”_

He dropped the coloring book and pressed his hand to his chest in what she sure hoped was mock affront because, of the two of them, it sure as hell wasn’t her constantly butting up against things like, oh, boundaries. “You wound me, Detective.”

The weird thing—and of course there were always weird things with Lucifer—was that he actually sounded hurt.

Closing her laptop and setting it aside, she leaned forward, planting her elbows on her knees. For someone who claimed never to lie, he was awfully good at playing word games. She’d learned pretty early on that whatever the whole-truth-nothing-but-the-truth was, she was far more likely to find it in his expression, his body language. What she saw now troubled her. Not only were his knees crossed, so were the wrists resting on those knees. Closed. Protective. The little tilt of his chin might’ve looked insouciant to someone less fluent in the language of him, but it wasn’t hard to see through the mask.

Honestly, if she ever met  _any_  of the so-called family that had so thoroughly rejected him that his first instinct now was to always see dismissal, she—she was going to do  _something._  Unpleasant.

She said, “I’ve had a headache for three days.”

His little flicker of hope made her eyes sting. 

“But I swear, Lucifer, if you make this creepy—”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “My word is my bond, Detective.”

She narrowed her eyes in warning, but he was smiling now—really smiling—and she  _really_ hoped he never realized how much he could get away with when he smiled that particular smile. 

“All right,” she said. “Where do you want me?”

As tests went, even she had to admit it was an epic one. He pressed his lips together and visibly swallowed the inevitable innuendo. Then, in a voice as crisply professional as she’d ever heard from him, he said, “The chair will suffice.”

Gently, almost tentatively, he settled his hands on her shoulders. Just the warmth and weight of them had her sighing a bit of relief. He remained as he was long enough for her to realize he was giving her another out, another escape. On some level, she knew it was probably an escape she should take—laugh it off, get flustered, spend the next week pretending she’d never  _wanted_  the way she wanted right now.

Instead, she bowed her head and ignored the tiny, almost desperate sound Lucifer made, even as it turned her stomach inside out in the best—best and most terrifying—way possible.

When his thumbs swept down the back of her neck on either side of her aching spine she couldn’t help making a little sound of her own. Slowly, carefully, in the utterly unhurried way Lucifer did so many things, his hands worked the pain from her neck and shoulders, leaving a kind of prickling euphoria in their wake. He lingered on  _exactly_  the spots that were most excruciating, precise as he was when he sat at his piano.

She did  _not_ , absolutely  _did not_ , want to think about the notes Lucifer Morningstar could make her body sing if she’d let him.

Because that was creepy. And weird. And he was  _Lucifer_. And she was not going there. Ever.

Minutes or hours or years later, he finished by sweeping his palms down her neck and across her shoulders. “Better?”

She made a noise that was supposed to be the words  _much, thank you_  but sounded more like a cross between a mumble and a moan and maybe some kind of weird definitely-not-sex noise that he was probably never going to let her live down.

“Excellent,” he replied, sounding satisfied without, miraculously, even a hint of smugness. 

And just for a second, a single throw-caution-to-the-wind second, she wished he’d actually say what she knew he had to be thinking— _mmm, now imagine what else these fingers are capable of, Detective_ —because she really,  _really_  wanted to find out. Instead, he only helped her sit upright again and, after a moment’s hesitation, lifted her hand and ghosted a kiss across her knuckles. “The footage will still be there in the morning, Detective. I think it’s best you go to sleep. I’ll lock up.”

She nodded and headed upstairs because she knew she should.

In the morning, she woke painless. Stumbling downstairs, she found Lucifer gone, but a beautifully colored page from Trixie’s coloring book on her laptop. Beneath the art, written in his elegant and unmistakable script, were the words,  _I believe we’re searching for the gentleman in the hat at 32:26, upper right-hand corner of the screen. See you shortly, Detective. I’ll bring coffee._

Smiling, she gave the artwork place of pride on the refrigerator, and started on breakfast.


	2. A Kiss In Public

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe/Lucifer (early in an established relationship)  
> Present tense

“I’ve brought you lunch,” Lucifer announces, setting a pair of large bags down atop her ominously large pile of paperwork. She doesn’t recognize the name of the restaurant but she can tell by the quality of the bags that whatever’s in them probably cost more than the entirety of her last grocery bill. “And not one of those monstrous salmonella sandwiches from the vending machine.”

She lifts an eyebrow, gesturing with her chin toward the bounty. “Just me?”

Whatever he’s brought smells  _divine._

“Us, rather.” She notices the slight hesitation and the way his voice softens subtly on the words; neither does she miss the shift in his posture that reminds her of the way Trixie looks when she brings home a good report card: somehow nervous and anticipatory all at once. He clears his throat. “Perhaps Miss Lopez, if she likes. And Daniel, though there’s no pudding.”

Her lips twitch and curve, though she doesn’t laugh. “Lucifer, are you telling me you brought lunch for all your friends at work?”

A very faint flush rises in his cheeks. “Don’t be preposterous. It’s only—it’s only they were quite generous and there’s no sense seeing it all go to waste.”

“Right.” She nods, very seriously. “Waste. Wouldn’t want that.”

He lifts his chin, jaw set and lips smiling in the expression she’s come to realize means  _feeling emotionally vulnerable but about to pretend at indifference,_  and tugs at the cuffs of his immaculate shirt. “If you’d rather I—”

“Lucifer,” she says. 

“Detective?” 

Not for the first time, she thinks about the terrible power she has. No one person should be able to shift another from distress to hope in the space of a heartbeat. That she’s the person who holds such power over  _Lucifer Morningstar_  is—well. A lot. “Lucifer,” she repeats, leaning forward on her left elbow. He subconsciously mirrors her, leaning forward from the waist. With her right hand, she reaches up and hooks her index finger into the v above the top button of his waistcoat. And tugs.

He lets himself be tugged.

He manages, “Chloe, are you certain—” before she kisses him. Right in the middle of the precinct. With two huge bags of takeout on the desk between them. Someone cheers. Someone else claps. There’s definitely a hoot.

_She doesn’t care._

After an only slightly inappropriate length of time, she draws back, presses a final swift peck on his still-startled lips and whispers, “Thank you for bringing lunch.”

“Ahh,” he manages, which isn’t a word at all. “I—that is—”

She taps his cheek gently, his stubble rough and perfect under her fingertips. “Who knew this was all it would take to render you speechless? Should’ve tried it ages ago.”

And he smiles, oh he smiles like she’s reached up and plucked the sun from the sky just for him, captures her hand, kisses her knuckles like they’re something incomparably precious, and does not let her go. 


	3. A Kiss on a Place of Insecurity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe/Lucifer (early in an established relationship)  
> Past tense

Chloe didn’t know what to make of it.

For  _years_ , Lucifer’d been loudly proclaiming his intention, desire,  _whatever_  to get her into bed. Often at the most inappropriate moments. In a voice that carried.

Now, though, when she’d all but thrown the door open and declared she was his for the taking (and, in a rare moment of agreement with Maze, she really,  _really_  needed some taking), the Lucifer who’d grinned salaciously and never let an opportunity for innuendo pass him by had gone… weird. If she hadn’t thought it was crazy to put the word and Lucifer together in the same sentence, she’d have called him tentative. Nervous? Maybe even scared.

_Lucifer._

After two weeks of fingers brushing fingers and tender smiles and an absolutely mind-boggling number of missed opportunities, Chloe stood in the elevator, fingers hovering over the button that would take her to the penthouse. She pushed the button before she could think twice, brushed her hands down the front of her (very short) silk dress, and gazed at the flashing numbers of the floors she passed, trying not to panic.

When the door pinged open, she thought she’d misjudged and that he wasn’t at home, even though she’d looked downstairs and he definitely wasn’t there. The piano sat silent, keys covered. No music drifted from the sound system. The television screen was dark. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air-conditioning on her bare shoulders and everything to do with the silence ran the length of her spine.

She found him leaning on the balcony railing in his shirtsleeves, wrists crossed, hands empty of either cigarette or drink. Even before he turned, the curve of his shoulders betrayed his unease. His sadness. His expression was worse; as he took her in, she felt for all the world as if he was memorizing a sight he’d never see again.

Instead of crossing her arms, she took a step forward. Then another. He watched her, his mournful eyes never leaving her face. When she reached for his hands, he didn’t pull them away, but his elegant fingers felt impossibly heavy, impossibly cold.

“Lucifer,” she said softly, “what are you doing?”

He glanced away and the silver moonlight cast his face in chiaroscuro shadows.

“Ruining things,” he said in a voice as old and weary as the universe. “As usual.”

“Nothing’s ruined.”

He closed his eyes as if her words caused him physical pain. Maybe they did. “I’ll do something foolish. I’ll say something unfeeling.” When he opened them again, his eyes shone damp in the starlight. “I will fail you. As I’ve already failed you. I don’t—Detective, I don’t know what you want. How am I to—”

“Hey,” she said, dropping one of his hands to press her fingertips against his lips. “Why don’t you let me worry about me for a second. This is a two-way street. You know that, right? Why don’t you start by telling me what you want?”

If she’d reached out and slapped him, she didn’t think his shock could’ve been more visible. “I… shouldn’t.”

She tried a smile but it, too, felt impossibly sad. “Too kinky?”

He shook his head; his hair looked as though he’d pushed his hands through it too many times. She smoothed it back and he shivered under her touch.  _Trembled._  “Lucifer, please. Talk to me.”

Eyes downcast, he said, “I was made—I was  _designed_  to know desires. To  _want_. And then… and then He punished me for—”

“For wanting,” she finished. “Oh, Lucifer.”

She closed the last of the distance between them, her arms wrapping hard around him, her cheek pressed against his chest, tears dampening the fabric. His heart sounded just the same as a human heart; she knew that, once upon a time, it had broken the way any child’s heart would break if forced to endure even a fraction of what he’d endured.

Trusting he’d forgive her the smudge of lipstick it left on his pristine shirt, she pressed her lips against that beating heart, that broken heart. “I’m not going  _anywhere_. And I want you to want. With abandon.” She couldn’t bring herself to care that her mascara was probably leaving smudges beneath her eyes. Tilting her head up, she found him already looking down at her, sadness replaced by wonder, by awe. “Tell me, Lucifer Morningstar,” she whispered in a terrible imitation of his accent. “What do you desire?”

His hand cupped her cheek like she was made of the finest crystal, the most delicate porcelain. Even in the darkness, she saw his eyelashes were spiky with tears. “Us,” he breathed, and kissed her.


	4. A Kiss as an Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe/Lucifer (early in an established relationship)  
> Present tense

Chloe finds Lucifer on his balcony, a cigarette burning down in one hand and an untouched glass of whiskey in the other. He doesn’t turn when she approaches. If anything, his shoulders hunch even more, and she’s reminded of a wounded animal, the kind that curls up in the quietest, darkest place to die.

“I fear I’m not good company tonight, Detective.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, or even sad; certainly nothing like the incandescent fury he’d erupted into at the crime scene, when they’d found all the—discovered all the—

She pushes the images away as best she can. She doesn’t want to think about what kind of nightmares she’s going to have for the foreseeable future. She doesn’t want to think about anything. She’s not even sure why she’s here, except she thinks maybe Lucifer’s seeing on the backs of his eyelids what she sees every time she blinks and she doesn’t want to be alone.

Though it hurts, it hurts so much she thinks she’ll die of it, she asks, “Do you want me to go?”

“What I want,” he says, flat and emotionless and utterly terrifying, “is to destroy the monsters that perpetrated those crimes. Utterly. Atomically. Death is too kind a fate.”

The remoteness in his voice makes her take a step forward instead of back. The cigarette burns. The tumbler of alcohol hangs heavy. She doesn’t know what he sees as he gazes into the night but he looks impossibly old, impossibly tired.

Even in the dark, she can see the splotches of blood still smeared on his shirt, so stark against the white. There’d been so much blood. So many little—so many—so much—

Her breath catches, catches, catches and won’t release, and it’s like there’s a hand—one with a grip as impossibly strong as Lucifer’s—clenched around her heart, squeezing at her lungs. She’d really thought she was all cried out, but her eyes are traitorous. She tries to blink the tears away but she’s on her hands and knees and she can’t catch her breath she can’t breathe she can’t she can’t—

Then Lucifer’s on his knees beside her, his strong hand rubbing circles between her shoulder blades, his voice a life preserver thrown to a woman drowning in the dark. She clutches at his knee because it’s a real thing, a solid thing, and if there’s blood on his pants she can’t see it in the dark. She manages one breath, then another. They hurt. Oh, how they hurt.

His breath is warm at her ear, and when he whispers, “Be not afraid, Chloe, be not afraid,” she knows he’s not talking about being scared, not really.

She breathes.

He kisses her temple so softly she almost thinks she’s imagined it. “Forgive me,” he says. “For making you come to me.”

“Lucifer…”

She’s close enough that she feels the hitch in his breath before he speaks, uneven. Uncertain. “It’s only… it’s only that I am so used to suffering alone.”

The floor of the balcony is hard and cold; there’s a burned out cigarette next to shards of glass and a pool of whiskey; Lucifer’s shirt is covered in blood; and she knows tomorrow she will have to face the reality of the case, but for now she puts her arms around him and he puts her arms around her, a real thing, a solid thing, and it’s enough, it’s enough, it’s momentarily enough.


	5. A Kiss Because They're Running Out of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mazikeen & Trixie  
> Past tense

It wasn’t like the little girl in her arms weighed enough to slow her down, but Maze knew  _they_  were getting closer, could feel  _them_  getting closer in every one of the instincts she’d honed in Hell and further perfected hunting foul human filth on Earth. But she needed her knives. And to use her knives, she needed her hands.

“Hey,” she said, trying to go for that calm Decker always managed so effortlessly. If the wide-eyed, tear-streaked, snotty panic on Trixie’s face was any indication, she failed miserably. Which, whatever. She wasn’t Decker. Fine. Play your strengths. “I gotta go kick some ass.”

“I can help,” Trixie said, her voice breaking on a little sob that did nothing to diminish her determination.

“Not this time. We—we gotta play a game. That stupid game you like. Hide and seek.”

Trixie shook her head, fresh tears welling up and adding more snotty tracks. “I  _hate_  that game, Maze. Last time, something happened to Lucifer and the bad man wanted to hurt Mommy.” She inhaled and pushed the back of her little hand angrily against the tears. “They’re gonna hurt you.”

“They’re not. What part of ‘kick some ass’ did you miss?”

“Okay,” said Trixie, miserable, after too long a pause. When Maze put her down, she told herself it was just the shift in weight that made her arms ache to reach out and grab the girl again. While Maze was still crouched beside her, Trixie reached out and placed her small hands on Maze’s cheeks and said, “Be careful. Put on your Halloween costume.”

She couldn’t have said why she did it, and, hell, she’d deny it if anyone ever asked, but Maze didn’t stop herself from pressing a kiss, desperate and full of something she’d have called a prayer if she wasn’t a damned  _demon_ , to Trixie’s brow.

“Go,” Maze whispered. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be okay.”

Maze pushed down twisted, unhappy, definitely-not-guilty feelings as she rose to her feet and flipped her knives into her hands. A final glance told her Trixie was well-hidden, practically invisible.

Besides, she didn’t have anything to feel bad about.

Lucifer was the one who didn’t lie. 


	6. A Kiss Out Of Habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe/Lucifer (pre-relationship)  
> Past tense

Even for Chloe, who arguably saw Lucifer Morningstar more often than anyone else, it was rare to catch him as utterly still and silent as he currently was, curled into the corner of her couch, sleeping. That he’d shed both suit jacket and shoes earlier in the evening—sometime between  _Moana_  and  _Mulan_ , she thought—was icing on the cake. He didn’t stir when she lifted Trixie up to carry her to bed, though Trixie shifted and murmured something about not being tired.

The weak protests stopped the moment Trix was in her own bed, cuddled down into her own pillows, Miss Alien snug in her arms. Chloe pressed a kiss to her daughter’s temple, inhaling the perfect scent of baby shampoo and chocolate cake (evidently movie nights meant cake  _and_  popcorn and adult libations for the adults, according to Lucifer) and fresh air. Trixie had spent enough of the evening huddled between Chloe and Lucifer that she could even make out a little of his cologne and her own perfume, such as it was. Her deodorant smelled nice, anyway.

In the living room, Lucifer had stretched out a little more, as if, even in sleep, he’d realized his legs now had more room on the previously crowded cushions. It struck her then, how… comfortable he looked. No walls, no armor, no ego or lurking pain she didn’t know how to name. Even though she was pretty sure he was the  _only_  person to ever wear a three-piece suit while sitting on that particular couch, he looked like he belonged there in ways… well, in ways so many others hadn’t. 

He hadn’t even complained about the Disney marathon. Much.

She tidied around him, turning off the television and cleaning the last of their snacks from the coffee table, expecting him to wake at any moment and sweep to his feet, as if she’d never seen him with his lips slightly parted, hair ruffled, ridiculous lashes fluttering. When he didn’t, she retrieved a blanket—ragged in the hem, but old and soft and, if she was honest, her  _favorite_ —from the linen closet. 

Gently, very gently, she settled it over his long limbs. A ghost of something pained skittered across his brow—a bad dream, a memory, a shadow—and before she could think twice about it, she did what she always did for Trixie: pressed her lips to the furrow to kiss the dark away. He smelled as good as he always did—not that she’d ever feed his giant ego and say so—cologne and styling product and grotesquely expensive wool, all accented with the very faintest memory of cigarette smoke and whiskey, which she should have hated and didn’t.

Her lips lingered a little longer than they might have, had it been Trixie’s forehead, Trixie’s bad dream.

A blush rose in her cheeks at her sheer ridiculousness and she stepped backward, just in time to see Lucifer open one eye and smirk. “Why, Det _ect_ ive, how unexpected.”

“Oh, shut up,” she replied without heat, smiling. “And go back to sleep. You can make us all omelets in the morning.”

No one could have been more startled than she when, in a rare act of obedience, he closed his eyes instead of leaping up and insisting there were parties to be partied and drinks to be drunk elsewhere. Just as she was about to disappear up the stairs, she thought she heard him whisper, so softly she could have imagined it, “Good night, Chloe.”

“Good night, Lucifer,” she whispered back, loud enough for him to hear.


	7. A Kiss Good Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chloe & Trixie & Lucifer  
> For Mother's Day :)  
> Past Tense

Chloe woke feeling rested… and her first thought was that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Between work and parenting and single parenting and work, she hadn’t felt completely rested in a decade. The sensation of something wrong jumped into high gear when she glanced at the clock and realized it was after ten and she hadn’t heard a peep from Trixie.

As if summoned by this panicked thought, Trixie poked her head into the room and grinned. “Mommy, you’re awake! Finally.”

Chloe flipped back the covers.

“No!” Bustling into the room, Trixie pulled the duvet back over Chloe’s legs. “You have to stay here for, um, five minutes. Okay?”

“Trix…”

Trixie dropped a damp kiss on Chloe’s cheek. “I love you, Mommy, but you have to stay.”

Knowing when to give up in the face of her daughter’s stubbornness, Chloe pushed herself upright against the headboard but made no move to leave the bed. Trixie flashed another grin and went bounding from the room, bed-tousled hair flying.

Instead of reaching for her phone—the last thing she wanted was an abrupt kick back to reality—Chloe closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell of bacon sent her into another mild panic until she realized Trixie must have conned Maze into making breakfast. Her daughter definitely knew better than to operate spitting frying pans without supervision. Her legs itched to slide out from beneath the blankets and carry her downstairs to inspect the kitchen carnage.

Five minutes. She could do five minutes.

Almost to the second (according to the clock she definitely wasn’t watching obsessively), the door opened again, this time admitting Trixie carrying a very full tray. Her daughter was concentrating so hard the corner of her little tongue was visible.

“Oh,” said Chloe, once she’d accepted the tray and cast her detective’s gaze across the ridiculously large breakfast. The whole thing looked like it had sprung, fully-formed, from the Williams Sonoma catalogue. Right down to the single perfect rose in a tiny crystal vase she was certain hadn’t come from her house. “Did… Maze help?”

Trixie giggled. “Yeah, right, Mommy. Lucifer’s here!”

“Lucifer’s… here? But… why?”

“Duh,” Trixie said, rolling her eyes. “Because I asked him.”

“You asked—”

“She did,” said Lucifer’s unmistakable voice from the doorway. “I’ve brought the vital ingredient for your breakfast in bed. Mimosa? Champagne? I suppose I could rustle up a Bloody Mary.”

“Um,” said Chloe, wishing she’d chosen something other than one of Dan’s ancient, tattered, abandoned t-shirts to sleep in. The tray on her lap kept her from pulling the blankets up under her chin. Had she even washed her makeup off the night before? “Mimosa?”

Lucifer’s gaze and the lift of his eyebrow told her the ratty shirt and mascara smudges hadn’t gone unnoticed. He produced a champagne flute—also definitely not hers—garnished with an orchid, of all the things, and smiled. 

Trixie clambered up beside her, careful not to upset the balance of the tray. “Lucifer made most of it but he let me stir the eggs with a fork and put all the pastries on the plate. Don’t they look good?” Trixie turned huge, pleading eyes her way. “Mommy, one of them is full of chocolate.”

“That your offspring hasn’t tasted a chocolate croissant is truly a sin,” Lucifer opined. “And I should know.” 

Chloe kissed Trixie’s temple. “That one’s all yours, baby. But I still don’t… understand?”

“Oh,” said Trixie. “Happy Mother’s Day! I was supposed to say that first.”

“Indeed.” She didn’t miss the swift sadness that crossed Lucifer’s face, even though the smile never faltered. Briefly inclining his head, he added, “If any mother deserves a little pampering, it’s you, Detective. Please. Enjoy. I’ll show myself out.”

“Thanks for helping, Lucifer!” Trixie said around a mouthful of chocolate croissant.

Chloe winced. “Does this mean my nine-year-old owes you a favor?”

“I’m wounded you’d think so.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s not a no.”

Lucifer chuckled. “I promise to use it on something worthwhile. An early bedtime, perhaps. Chores that need doing.”

Something in his smile as he turned away and headed for the door, however, tugged at her; a tiny fish-hook that wouldn’t let go. “You know there’s enough food for a small army here. You could stay. Help make a dent.”

“I… couldn’t possibly.”

“Stay, Lucifer!” Trixie turned her devious puppy eyes on him. “Please?”

“You—as I understand it, you ought to spend the day with family.”

Chloe raised expectant brows and patted the side of the bed. In a moment of uncharacteristic gracelessness, Lucifer moved closer skittishly. “You needn’t… not on my account…”

“Stay,” she said softly, and knew it was the right thing when his sadness fled, replaced by an expression like a sunrise after a very, very long night.


	8. A Kiss as a Promise

“Detective, honestly,” Lucifer murmured as Chloe tugged him along at a pace far brisker than he preferred. Hurrying did dastardly things to the line of his suit, for one. The Devil did not  _hurry._  “This is quite unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary,” she huffed, hand tightening even more firmly about his wrist—a not altogether unpleasant side-effect of the hurrying, he had to admit. “Lucifer, we are  _not_  supposed to be here.” She continued under her breath, though he had little trouble hearing her words, “Why I let you talk me into these things, I swear to—”

“Definitely unnecessary,” he interrupted before he had to hear Dad’s name on her lips. “Detective, if you’d only pause a moment, perhaps I could explain?”

She shot him a wide-eyed, disapproving, ever so slightly harried glance over her shoulder. The pace had brought color to her cheeks and she’d pulled her full bottom lip between her teeth to worry at it. The general impression was, as ever, disarming. The effect was, however, somewhat ruined by her hissing, “Lucifer, what are you  _smiling_  about? This isn’t funny.”

“I beg to differ, Detective, though that wasn’t the reason for the smile. You did ask for a lead.”

“A  _lead_. Not an engraved invitation to… to, I don’t know, the  _Criminals R Us convention_  back there.”

“Well,” he said breezily, “one man’s hoodlum is another’s—”

“Room full of armed gangsters with even more heavily armed guards, none of whom care for the police?”

He exerted just enough pressure to slow her ceaseless forward momentum. She stopped but didn’t release his wrist. With her other hand, she pushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “Lead,” he insisted. “And no harm will come to you, I swear it.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not something you can promise.”

Before he could think better of it, he lifted his arm and bowed his head to brush a mere ghost of a kiss across the knuckles still wrapped tight around his wrist. When he lifted his head, he thought—hoped, perhaps?—the color in her cheeks wasn’t merely from the walk. Certainly, she no longer looked harried. “How many times must I tell you, Detective?” he asked smoothly. “My word is my bond.”


	9. A Kiss on a Scar

Because she could count on one hand—without even using all the fingers on it—the number of times she’d woken before Lucifer, Chloe lay perfectly still, watching the rise and fall of his chest. For a tall man who took up so much space when he was awake, it always surprised her how small he made himself in his enormous bed. Beside her, he’d curled up on his side, arms tucked in close, facing her but not touching. On the far side of him, black silk stretched like a dark sea toward the horizon. 

Because Dan used to tease her about it, she knew she sprawled in her sleep and because Maze so embarrassingly pointed it out, she knew she talked. She’s still not sure if Lucifer was pulling her leg about the snoring that one time. When they slept in the same bed now he never mentioned any of it, never complained. Never teased. He never pointed out the stretch marks or the scars or imperfections—only kissing each as if it were precious, a gift—even though he had none of his own.  _None._

When she’d seen the twin scars on his back, she hadn’t known what an aberration they were. Hadn’t realized they weren’t part of a lengthy story of bumps and scrapes and accidents and growth spurts like the one her skin told. The wicked slashes, so jagged and wrong, had stopped her heart. The way he’d looked at her as he pleaded with her not to touch them had chipped away at her resolve to keep him at arm’s distance. Ironically, that moment had made him real to her, human; more than just the role he played or the irritation he induced. It was, she realized now, the first time she’d seen him vulnerable. The first time she’d seen how much he needed protection.

It was the first time she’d realized how much she’d  _wanted_  to protect him.

Those scars were gone now, of course; the skin of his back had long since returned to the same smooth, bronzed perfection as the rest of him. Still, her gaze fell on the spot above his heart where she should have seen the scar from a knife wound; on the leg where she’d once shot him—more than a graze, the state of the bullet she now wore around her neck told her; on the unblemished skin of his midsection that should’ve shown a bullet scar from Malcolm at least as bad as the one she carried on her shoulder.

“My, my, Detective. Like what you see?” One dark eye opened. His lips slid into a smirk.

“I do,” she said, and his raised eyebrows and the softness in his eyes told her he hadn’t been expecting the gentleness in her voice. Or perhaps the sincerity. She shifted closer, draping an arm over the curve of his waist and kissing the spot where the knife scar should have been. “I really do.”

 

 


	10. A Kiss to Distract

**_A kiss to distract._ **

Lucifer quite enjoyed the undercover cases, truth be told. He still refused to lie, of course, but seeing the detective step back into her role as actress (though rather more clothed, disappointingly) thrilled him more than he cared to admit. Especially when that role necessitated hanging from his arm and gazing up at him with rapt adoration.

Worth the agony. Always.

Of course, he did not have to pretend when he tucked her arm closer still, and it was no lie to protect her from the louts cavorting around them. Chloe giggled becomingly and faked a tipsy wobble. When he bent his head, the picture of concern, she whispered, “Hiding behind at least three guards. Probably carrying. Walk me closer.”

“Of course, darling,” he purred.

Before they’d managed even half a dozen steps, however, a pathetically drunk, obnoxious voice behind them said, “Hey. Hey. Can I get your number, baby? Tommy’ll show you a real nice time. Hey, yeah, I’m talking to you. Blonde with the great legs? You’re something else.”

The glower that briefly crossed Chloe’s face was decidedly out of character, though only Lucifer could see it.

Had the encounter occurred with less of an audience, Lucifer would have flashed his eyes at the buffoon and left him crying in a piss-scented corner. Instead, he merely turned his head and murmured dangerously, “I beg your pardon?”

“Hey, man. Not looking to interrupt your night or anything, I just—”

“You  _just_ ,” Lucifer repeated. The imbecile, too drunk or stupid to catch the rather obvious threat, took another step closer instead of running in the opposite direction as he ought.

“Lucifer,” Chloe hissed.

“Right,” said the drunkard. “It’s just her job, man. Nothing wrong with—”

“I am  _not_  your ‘man,’” Lucifer snarled, and only Chloe’s hands tightening around his arm stopped him picking up the oaf by the scruff of his neck and  _sending_  him through the window and into the street to fend for himself against oncoming traffic.

“ _Lucifer_.”

“And she is not—”

Before he could finish, Chloe dropped her grip on him, looped her arms around his neck, clutched at his hair, and pulled him into a kiss. An… intent kiss. Startled, he swallowed his ire and whatever he’d been about to say or do and put his hands tentatively at her waist. Her midriff-exposing top was a temptation he couldn’t resist and his fingers crept higher, caressing the impossibly soft skin bared to him.

Oh, oh how he wanted more.

He thought—hoped, perhaps?—the sound his touch pulled from her was not entirely part of her role.

_Role._

He pulled away from the kiss when all he wanted—with desire so potent it rivaled only that which had driven him from Heaven in the first place—was to lose himself in the heat of her mouth and her hands and her body pulled flush against his. Stopping himself hardly helped; the detective looked ravishing and ravished both with her lips pink and cheeks rosy. One corner of her mouth turned up in a pale mimicry of a smile. “Is he gone?”

Lucifer nodded. With some difficulty, as he did not wish to look anywhere but at her.

“Good. Because I think throwing him into a wall might’ve blown our cover.”

“I—” He couldn’t finish, however, without lying, so the word drifted alone into the breath of space between them. Gently, Chloe released his hair, her fingertips ghosting over the sensitive skin of his neck on their path back to the grip on his arm. “Forgive me.”

“No harm done,” she replied, leaning against him once again. Did she hold him tighter? Lean closer? He wanted to believe she did, but wanting... he could not trust his own wanting. Not concerning her.

“Even so,” he said, bringing his hand up to cover hers as her gaze shifted back to their original target.

Worth the agony.

Always.


	11. A Kiss as Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linda & Lucifer  
> Past tense

Expecting Maze’s return from the restroom—after Linda had finally convinced her removing some of the blood might be wise before they left the office—she finished tucking her notebook into her bag instead of looking up when she heard the jiggle of the door handle.

“She knows.”

Lucifer barging into her office was typical; the grief in his voice and the  _multiple apparent gunshot holes_  that had shredded the front of his shirt were anything but.

Though the first words that wanted to burst from her were  _My God_ —she’d gotten better about not defaulting to them, now that she knew both that God was real and that Lucifer had any number of reasons to hate the constant reminder of Him—she couldn’t stop herself leaping to her feet and crossing the room as swiftly as her four-inch heels allowed. “Are you all right? Lucifer? What happened? Is—where’s Chloe?”

“One at a time, Doctor.” On any other occasion, he’d have followed the phrase with a smirk or a cocked eyebrow. Instead, he shuffled— _Lucifer Morningstar shuffled_ —toward the couch and sank down onto it, dropping his head into his hands. “Pierce—Cain is dead. I think I… Chloe is… she saw. She  _saw_.”

He pushed his hands through his hair roughly before lifting his gaze to meet hers. Her hand was at her heart and her body already carrying itself to sit next to him before she could process even a fraction of his despair. She touched her fingertips to his shoulder and instead of drawing away, he curled instantly around her, wrapping his arms tight around her shoulders.

“Forgive me, Doc—Linda. May I… may I ask for the friend just now? Instead of the therapist?”

“Oh, Lucifer,” she whispered, returning the hug. He winced when she began rubbing soothing circles against his back. Pausing, she asked, “Are you injured? Is there anything I can do?”

“I’ll heal,” he said bitterly, words muffled against the top of her head. “I’ll always bloody heal, won’t I?”

“And Chloe?”

“Well, I’ve gone and ruined it, haven’t I? Wasn’t my bloody wings she saw.”

Linda nodded, releasing a soft exhale that stirred the broken threads of his shirt. The muscles of his back trembled beneath her palm. “Where is she now?”

“The—with Cain.” His arms tightened a little more and though it hurt, just a little, she let him cling. “Couldn’t very well stay, could I? Not after she told me to go.”

The therapist in her had any number of things to say, any number of paths to guide Lucifer toward. For now, she set those things aside, like books on a shelf she’d return to later. The friend pulled back just enough to press a soft kiss against the stubbled line of his jaw and said, “She’ll come around. She will.”

The hitch in his breath betrayed him, though he remained silent.

“Give her some time, Lucifer. Just give her some time.”

When he nodded, it felt like a victory. Linda squeezed him close again and began rehearsing the conversation she needed to have with Chloe.


	12. A Kiss as Encouragement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer & Azrael  
> Past tense

With Dad forever tinkering on his creations—evidently, something had gone terribly wrong with the giant lizard bird creatures and He wasn’t terribly pleased—and Mum growing colder and more distant by the hour, Lucifer had rather thought his parents finished with creating children of their own. Whatever desires had resulted in a little sister, he could understand none of them. Which was saying something.

Yet, one day, there she was, all big eyes and round cheeks, with wings she didn’t know how to use, and no sense of the endless games her siblings had been playing with each other since Creation. Uriel liked that she was smaller than he; Lucifer saw that at once. 

Perhaps because Uriel was also small, their new sister approached him first.

In the past, his brother had used that divine facility with patterns to try and twist his siblings into knots, but they were too used to it now for the tactic to be effective. Whatever he said made the newest angel take a few stumbling steps back, and since she hadn’t learned to keep her wings out of the way, she tripped over them and sprawled. Any of their other siblings would have jumped up again at once, ready to show Uriel with fists the consequences of his devious words, but this newest angel only remained where she was, crumpled like an abandoned toy while Uriel smirked above her.

It wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all.

Before Uriel could open his mouth again—doubtless to drive daggers of dark possibilities deeper, giving rise to that most insidious of his talents: self-fulfilling prophecy—Lucifer extended his wings sharply enough to give rise to a gust of wind; the effect was unnecessary, of course. Uriel flinched at merely the sound.

“You may go, Uriel,” Lucifer said, as if Uriel had a choice when they both knew he didn’t. For an instant, Lucifer thought his brother might protest, might try to swing a fist or a word, but he only whipped around, snapped his wings—pathetic, really—and vanished.

To his newest sister, Lucifer extended a hand. She eyed it warily for a moment before tentatively closing her fingers around his. It took very little effort to haul her to her feet. “Don’t mind Uriel,” he said. “He’s an arse. Likes hearing himself talk.”

“He said I don’t have a purpose.”

“Doubt that,” Lucifer said. “Dad’s pretty single-minded about that kind of thing. He gave you a name?”

“Azrael,” she said, feeling out the sounds. “Yes. It’s Azrael. I’m Azrael.”

“Help of God? Lovely.  _Terribly_  specific.”

Azrael’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, none of that,” Lucifer insisted. He dabbed at her damp cheeks with the sleeve of his robe. “Darling, we’re going to need to learn sarcasm straight away.”

Her face scrunched up strangely before she blurted, “Which of my siblings are you?”

“Lucifer.”

She tilted her head, brows furrowing. “No ‘of God’?”

Lucifer sighed. “Yes, fine. I suppose Dad’s name for me is Samael. I’m… not overly fond. Mum’s is nicer. Think they might’ve had a row about it.” He shrugged as if this didn’t bother him. “Suspect He’ll smite me if it really bothers Him. Hasn’t happened yet.”

“You… choose?”

Not for the first time, the little spark of frustration that constantly burned in his gut like banked coals fanned into a belly full of fire. “We are not slaves.”

Turning away, ready to take himself to one of the half-forgotten corners of the Silver City he retreated to when he needed to pretend he was somehow free from his Father’s suffocating influence, Lucifer was stopped by Azrael’s small fingers clutching at him.

“What’s  _your_  purpose?” she asked. Hopefully. Desperately. “Do you know it?”

Lucifer wanted to snap, to snarl, to mutter something about being more than the butt of some jest of his Father’s, but Azrael wasn’t Amenadiel. She wasn’t Uriel or Gabriel or Raphael. She certainly wasn’t holier-than-thou Michael. “Something rather useless, if you must know. Perhaps He’s going a bit soft, for all that.”

“Or He’ll tell us when He’s ready?”

“Or that,” Lucifer said. His wings itched to take him away. He’d been too long at home, this time. It chafed. Still, he settled his hands on Azrael’s slight shoulders and dropped a kiss like a benediction on the top of her head. “I daresay you’ll figure it out in time, darling, but until then don’t let any of those feathered arseholes mess you about. You’ve as much right to be here as any of them.”

He drew back just in time to see her face fall. “You’re leaving?”

Because he didn’t lie and didn’t want to color her first experiences with his dissatisfaction, he only extended his wings and said, “I am.”

“Okay. Well.” She paused, a slight smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Smell you later, Lucifer.”

Mid-flap, Lucifer stopped and staggered at the sudden loss of lift. “Did you—pardon me, did you just say, ‘Smell you later’?”

“I did!” Azrael grinned wide enough to show the dimple high in her right cheek. “I chose it. Just now.”

“Not what I’d have gone with, but points for being something Amenadiel will hate.” Rolling his eyes, Lucifer extended his hand for a second time. “Right then. Are you coming? Now’s as good a time as any to learn how to use those wings. Not just for show, are they?”

Had any of his siblings ever looked at him with such openness, such blind trust? 

It was bloody terrifying.

“And sarcasm?” she prompted.

“And sarcasm,” he agreed. “Definitely sarcasm.”


	13. A Kiss Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer/Chloe, ep 2x13 missing moment.  
> Past tense.

**_A kiss goodbye._ **

Once the antidote had been given and the doctors had announced their baffled predictions of a full recovery; once Daniel and Beatrice had showered the Detective with their relief and finally departed, leaving her to sleep herself well again; once Lucifer had found his suit jacket and groomed himself as best he was able and drunk the mediocre coffee provided by Dr. Linda (spiked by Maze), he let himself silently into the Detective’s room. Even before he saw her propped up on a bank of pillows, eyes closed and golden hair as close to a halo as he’d ever seen in the mortal world, the Detective’s deep, even breathing told Lucifer she slept. Peacefully. No seizures. No certain death.

Afraid his presence might somehow call her back to wakefulness before he was ready, Lucifer stood near the door and watched the reassuring rise and fall of her chest. His own still ached from his… ordeal, but he hadn’t been willing to move far enough away from the Detective to heal properly.

Soon enough.

Soon enough.

After a time, he moved toward the chair at her bedside and sat, hands hanging limp and useless between his knees, their work done. Every time he blinked, he imagined he’d open his eyes to his penthouse apartment, to Uriel, to blood so very hot on his guilty hands. Over and over and over. His arm still ached from the hundred times he’d killed his brother, the thousand. Even now, he closed his right hand into a fist and _felt_ the hilt of the blade clutched within it, but opening his fingers resulted in no clatter of celestial metal to the floor.

The skin around the Detective’s eyes remained dark and bruised with exhaustion and terror but her cheeks were no longer pallid. His lips turned up, but the smile was a bitter one and he was glad she could not see it. The happiness that had felt so _real_ —so real and so wasn’t—felt a thousand years ago. A millennium. A lifetime.

Damn his Father anyway. And Mum. He needed to leave; he knew that. Was certain of it. He could not stay and be the source of Chloe’s pain. He could not lie to her.

And yet, and _yet_ , the whole bloody thing was a lie. She just didn’t know it.

She sure as Hell did not deserve to be embroiled in it.

He’d already made the calls he needed to make. Simple enough, really; when given enough money, just about anything could be taken care of. He knew he should leave before she woke. Now, clean break, fresh start. Find a new home, far from hers, because he could not trust himself to stay away otherwise. He was too selfish. Had always been too selfish. Especially when he _wanted_.

And oh, how he wanted.

Instead, he kissed his fingertips—not bloody—as gently as he wanted to kiss her cheek and pressed those fingertips, that kiss, to the back of the hand still trapped in the medical devices monitoring her return to health.

“Goodbye, Chloe,” he whispered, throat tight and eyes stinging, as she began to stir toward wakefulness. Too late to flee, now. No clean break; only jagged shards, sharp and unforgiving as Azrael's blade. So, he folded his hands tightly—they weren’t bloody, he knew they weren’t bloody; but, oh, he wanted he wanted he wanted—and he prepared to omit because omission wasn’t truly lying.

“Well,” he said, as her open, tender expression destroyed him in ways even Hell had never managed, “look who’s back. You didn’t die after all. That makes one of us.”


	14. A Kiss as an Apology (Azrael)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azrael POV, post 3x25. Present tense.

****Her brother is smiling when he returns home later, the faint scent of Ella’s perfume—doubtless left behind after an exuberant hug or three; poor Ella has no idea what a good hugger her brother used to be, _before_ —clinging to the jacket he shrugs out of and uncharacteristically leaves hanging over the back of his sofa. He doesn’t sense her; he’d only known she was around earlier because she wanted him to. One of those things the whole Angel of Death schtick has going for it, really; no one knows when she’s coming. No one knows when she’s lurking around a corner. Not even Lucifer.

Maybe especially not Lu. He’s better at picking things up than he used to be, but he’s still pretty far up his own butt most of the time.

No wonder he hates being manipulated so much. It’s almost comical how Dad-damned _easy_ it is, once you know the way Lu’s heart works. It almost makes her feel bad.

Instead of reaching for a drink or a cigarette, Lu pulls a few effortless, thrilling scales from his piano.

It’s kind of a big deal, actually. She doesn’t think he’s played at all since—well. Cain. And the whole shit-show that followed. But he plays now. He plays and plays and plays.

Music was one of the things she’d missed most about her brother, once it—once _he_ —was gone. None of her other siblings played like he did. They were all hymns and odes and alleluias, perfect and deadly dull. And she knew _deadly_ , honestly. Nothing wrong with a good alleluia, of course—even Lu had played some extraordinary ones when he was Samael and trying to capture the sound the stars made when they danced in another desperate attempt to please their Father—but her brother’s music was always a little _more_ , a little sweeter, a little more irreverent, seductive. It’s one thing the humans almost get right; music really has always been the Devil’s domain.

Even when he was an angel. Even when he was turning hymns into battlecries and inciting rebellion with arpeggios and deceptive cadences.

Azrael touches the pair of fish at her throat, reminding herself, grounding herself. She doesn’t leave, even when she knows she’s meant to be in a dozen other places, fifty, a hundred, a thousand.

They just die and die and die. Relentlessly.

Oh, well. Let them have their extra minutes, their extra hour; she’ll come for them soon enough. 

Azrael sits with her back against his bar, knees pulled in to her chest, making herself small as she’d done countless times when she wanted to listen to her brother without distracting him. He plays old tunes and new before improvising something so superlatively beautiful—so perfectly _Lu_ — it pains her that no one is here to hear him.

She wonders how often their Father listens in.

Probably more often than His son would believe, if he knew.

He’d always loved Samael’s music, too. Once upon a time. Before it was all turned against Him so spectacularly. That no music in Hell thing hadn’t been for nothing.

She wonders how often Lu, on some level buried below eighteen hundred layers of don’t give a shit, still plays for Him.

Lucifer plays for hours without stopping, without dulling his emotions with drugs or drink. It’s like some kind of record. When he finally stops, it’s to stand on his balcony for a half-hour she’d suspect he spent praying, if he did that kind of thing anymore. She remains outside while he goes in, gets ready for bed, falls asleep.

She doesn’t really pray, either. Not like she used to.

When she’s sure her brother is sleeping—he always could go from party to pass-out in six-point-five seconds—she hovers beside his bed, troubled. Just a little bit. Not too much. Enough.

She says, “‘Pretty much’ isn’t ‘yes,’ Lu. Come on. I learned that one from you.” Her words don’t wake him. Her sigh doesn’t ruffle the curls that have fallen over a brow that remains furrowed, even in sleep. Another one of those super-cool, super-depressing Angel of Death things. She shakes her head before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. She doesn’t think she imagines the lines there smoothing a bit. Again, she touches her fingertips to the fish clasp. “For what it’s worth—and it’s not worth much, I know—I am sorry. Really.”

For three long heartbeats, she makes herself visible at his side. Promises she’ll tell him everything if he wakes up and just asks her.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t.


End file.
